Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Click, click; click, click.

The rapid succession of the pen nib contracting and retracting kept in time with Higgs’ thoughts.

Space was limited in the compact cities, so when Fragile Express and Western Courier Co. merged, they opted to share the office located in Fragile Express’s central hub. It was tight, but Higgs didn’t mind. It gave him a front-row seat to his new partner’s abilities. Fragile wasn’t one to show off, but neither did she attempt to hide her extensive DOOMS. On top of accompanying premium shipments through hazardous trails dense with BTs, he often caught her jumping throughout the facility when she was in a hurry. She’d blip in and out like a flashbulb, the scent of sea salt always trailing close behind, so pungent it taunted him with its taste.

Click, click.

Higgs watched her as she mapped out new routes for their outfit. She was lost in her problem-solving with her pretty brow slanted in concentration, the green glow of the three-dimensional landscape reflecting off her delicate features as she scrutinized its topography. What marvels had she seen? How could she just sit there, scrolling through maps, when she had experienced The Beach? The Beach.

Click. 

Higgs pondered the possibilities a link to The Beach could bring, how it could connect them. Knit the broken fabric of humanity back together. Sure, they were knotting the world through cargo, but could that grid be stretched further? Net-in the corners of civilization? Without access, he’d never know.

“Is everything alright?” Fragile interrupted, “You’re staring.”

“My apologies,” Higgs shook his head and graced her with his most charming smile, “Sometimes I feel like my brain gallops this way and that and I’m just along for the ride.”

“Well, let me know if you crash into any ideas about these routes. I don’t know where else to cut corners and still keep the porters safe.”

Higgs rolled his chair over to the holograph drafting table where she was working. He had no qualms over saddling right up right next to her, their shoulders pressed together. Getting in another’s space revealed a lot about them. Fragile didn’t shy away, and that said something about her bravery. Whether or not that bravery was foolish, he had yet to learn.

Pointing with his pen, Higgs traced out a mountain passageway through the three-dimensional projection, “We used to go through here every once in a while. It’s a pain in the ass—rocky and overgrown—but no BTs. It’ll cut down a bit of time. Maybe twenty minutes.”

Fragile hummed in approval. He knew she counted every second. Any reduction in delivery time was a win. As she entered the calculations into a separate datapad, losing herself in the betterment of her business, Higgs realized this was his chance.

He propped his elbow on the desk and cradled chin in his palm as he casually threw out, “There might be a way to use The Beach.”

Fragile kept typing but quirked an eyebrow in interest, “How so?”

“Not sure yet, but I’ve been turning it over,” he shrugged, “Never been to a Beach, though, so I’m not familiar with the parameters, physics—hell, anything. But it seems like a waste not to look into it.”

After throwing a glance to the clock in the corner of her datapad, Fragile stopped working to meet his gaze, “I’ve got an hour before I need to be at the sorting bay, why don’t I take you to The Beach to get your creativity going?”

Higgs almost dropped his pen. Convincing her was easier than he thought it would be. She really just offered to take him to The Beach. The Beach. Like it was nothing. His jaw went slack as he started to comprehend what was about to happen. Ever since he’d dragged that body to the grove outside of a rusted-out Oklahoma bunker, felt the majesty of decay seeping out through its seams, he had longed for this.

“Really, Higgs,” Fragile mirrored his position on the desk, cheek braced with a fist, “If you wanted to go so bad, you could have asked me sooner.”

“That obvious?”

“That obvious. Now, come on,” she rose from her seat, “let’s go to The Beach.”

Unsure of the process, Higgs stood and let her guide him in front of her with her hands bracketing his shoulders. The height difference was awkward, and she had to reach. She said something about the jump requiring touch, so he hooked his hands over the crooks of her elbows. It was almost like an embrace.

“Cozy,” he quipped, “Don’t you need your fancy umbrella for this?”

“Not if we’re just going to my Beach and back. But taking people isn’t easy,”  Fragile shushed him as she closed her eyes, “Stay quiet, so I can concentrate.”

They lapsed into silence, and Higgs became aware of their tandem breathing. It seemed like a sacred ceremony. Beaches were personal, and Fragile was permitting him to see hers. He stilled in reverence, allowing his neck to dip until his forehead grazed the stray hairs at the top of her head. As he exhaled and his lids slipped shut, he let himself be consumed by this communal prayer. 

(In a world where whales leapt from tar pits and the dead haunted the earth, belief in the supernatural made complete sense to him).

The air fissured and snapped with chirality. Electricity reverberated in his teeth, leaving an acrid flavor in his mouth. It was like they were in a vacuum, a void, where there was no air, no light, no sound, and yet everything in the universe was pressing in on them all at once. For a split-second, he felt it again. That undercurrent of power that crackled from corpses as they necrotized.

It felt so good.

It was over as quickly as it had begun. The world came rushing back with such speed that it made his ears pop. But it was different. Instead of steel beneath his boots, he felt the ground give way as pliant sand. A soft breeze whispered against his eyelashes. The air was now dense with moisture.

Higgs dared to open his eyes.

Unraveling his fists from the nylon fabric of Fragile’s jumpsuit, he took a step back and observed the coastline before him. It was monochromatic. Black razor ridges towered against a silvery sky, while smaller jagged rocks poked through the dusty blankets of sand. Along the shore, stalks of kelp rolled in the white-capped tide. The ocean depths beyond called out as the hush of water faded in-and-out, a most perfect symphony for these holy grounds.

It was everything.

Higgs let out a long low whistle and turned to give Fragile a wink.

Amused by his antics, she smiled, “I’m guessing you approve?”

“It’s beautiful,” he returned her grin with a lopsided smirk that revealed a single too-sharp canine, “Absolutely fuckin’ beautiful.”

Chapter Text

It was a generous pour—certainly more than the recommended “two-finger” serving. Heartman tried not to fault himself. It had been a long journey back from the inauguration in Capitol Knot. Swiveling his chair toward the expansive window which beheld the view of his (and he did refer to it as “his”) love heart crater, he considered the implications of the past few weeks. Amelie. The Stranding. Samantha Spade.

A shy smile piqued the corner of his mouth at that last one.

But the most significant was his decision to suspend the search for his family. 

He hadn’t ceased his Beach walks just yet, but he knew that would have to come soon. When he had been away in Capitol Knot, it had been easy to be logical, but now that he had returned to his lab, the mountain lake stared at him as if to ask, “Are you sure?”

A snowball exploded against the glass.

Startled, Heartman set his untouched whiskey on the desk with a concerned, “What on earth?” 

Another frozen projectile ruptured.

He squinted into the snow. There, a black dot in a world of white, was Sam Porter Bridges. In his arms, he held a small knapsack, cradled with too much care to be anything but the most precious of cargo. Heartman threw himself to the window and began frantically gesturing for Sam to meet him at the front door.

Jogging down the padded corridor, the rhythm of his heart monitor picked up. Without a Bridges cuff to grant entry, Sam would need to be let in by hand. He had been missing since the inauguration, though Deadman took the liberty of filling Heartman in on the secret: he had chosen to go offline with his stolen Bridge Baby. Heartman knew it was a sign of trust that Sam had staggered to his stoop, and he would not break that confidence.

As he arrived in the fireplace foyer, his palms thumped then squidged against the glass door. Sam was just trudging up the last flight of steps, looking sweaty and spent. Heartman motioned for them to halt. He then held up five fingers and began counting down on one hand, while with the other he entered hurried code on his wrist computer. It was only after his last finger dropped that he opened the door.

“I’m so sorry,” he blurted, scooping the bundle from Sam’s arms, “I had to make sure Bridges thought I was in cardiac arrest.”

“I get it,” Sam panted as he slicked away perspiration from his dirty brow, “Worry about her, will ya?”

Heartman had been bouncing the knapsack without thinking, knowing what lay within. Unzipping it, he found the tearful babe wrapped tightly in thermal blankets. A familiar feeling swelled up. It was hard to believe this little thing had lived most of her life in a pod until recently. He smiled down at Lou, “Well, hello there.”

Her whimpers subsided as she took him in with wide eyes.

“Is everything alright?” Heartman asked Sam as he began to rock Lou once more, “I can’t imagine you’d risk a trip to a Bridges facility if the matter wasn’t pressing.”

“She’s running a fever. Not eating,” Sam said as he finally began to catch his breath, “Thought you’d know what to do.”

Ah. Severed from the Chiral Network, Sam had no access to child-rearing literature, and since children were rare, parents were too. He had no one from whom to seek advice except the one (former) parent he did know.

Heartman placed the back of his hand against the infant’s soft forehead, “She is a bit warm, but I’m sure it’s nothing more than a cold. I’ll run some tests and get her settled.” Registering Sam’s state—teetering with dark eye bags and cold-chapped cheeks—he pointed toward the spa, “You rest. I’ve cut sound to the baths, you won’t be heard.”

“But, Lou-“

“Louise and I will do well enough without you.” 

Beneath his ice-encrusted hair and patchy beard, Sam looked wary.

Heartman placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder and was pleased the porter didn’t blanch at the touch, “Sam, I can assure you: I know what I’m doing.”

“Yeah. Okay,” he nodded, “Call me if she needs anything, though.”

“Of course.”

Seeming as though he might topple over at any moment, Sam lumbered toward the man-made hot springs, leaving silt and puddles in his wake. Heartman frowned and made a mental note to mop those up later.

“Not a graceful man, your father," he said, glancing down at Lou, "But fortunately for us, a good one.”

She cooed, looking far more cheerful than when she had first arrived.

“You’re not as fussy as my Amelia when she was ill, but I do need for you to be quiet when my three minutes are up. Can’t have Bridges picking up infant burbling.”

Rather than make a sound, she opened her mouth into a wide sleepy yawn.

“That’s better. Now, let’s get you nourished and hydrated.”

Tucking her close his chest, the AED slowed into a steadier beat than it had in years. 

Chapter Text

Higgs peered over the cliffside, his steel-toed boots nudging pebbles off the edge. The rocks skittered down the precipice.

“Well, shit,” he sighed.

It was a death drop.

After getting caught in timefall, the sopping ground had given way on the trail, leading to a mudslide. With their route impassable, they pivoted to their second option, only to find that it too had collapsed. Now they were covered mud, shivering, and about to descend one of the most unfortunate, sheer-faced escarpments he’d ever seen. He counted a measly handful of reliable-looking handholds and a single ledge jutting out midway. 

At least the rain had stopped.

Fragile joined him in looking down the rocky height. “What do you think?”

“Thinkin’ we don’t have another option.”

Without a word, Fragile unclasped her pack and began ruffling around for their climbing gear.

They rarely made runs together. Business was booming, but as a consequence leadership was stretched thin. Plus, Fragile’s DOOMS were always in high demand. No, if they were ‘porting, it made sense to have them apart—training new employees or handling high-maintenance shipments. However, a large order of time-sensitive medical supplies had come through while they both happened to be at the western hub and, for the hell of it, they opted to share the load.

A mistake, he realized now. They should have diffused the risk.

Not that their trip had been bad before the mudslides. Fragile turned out to be wittier than he expected, her humor all dry and nuanced. She was surprisingly open, too; willing to talk about her childhood, her father, how she was struggling to cope with his passing. In exchange, Higgs told her tales of an herbalist grandmother and an older brother who used to draw pictures for him as a boy. 

They didn’t actually exist, but Fragile didn’t need to know that.

“I’ll head down and place some anchors,” Higgs said, stripping the alloy cargo cases from his back and stacking them on the ground one by one. “You pack everything up so we can lower it down separately.”

“I should go first,” Fragile countered as she continued to dig out equipment. “You have a twisted ankle.”

“You patronizin’ me?” He snorted. “I was made for climbin’. Got those ‘spindly limbs,’ as you called ’em.”

“Fine. But don’t be stupid.”

“Am I ever?” He grinned as he hooked a rusted carabiner that had seen better days to his harness and tested it with a tug.

“Don’t make me answer that.”

He laughed. Again, dry wit.

They prepped, sunk a bolt into a sturdy boulder, and double-checked their knots and rigging. It took them longer than he wanted, and when they’d finally finished, he was hankering to make up for lost time. They had a reputation to keep.

With a final salute to Fragile, he lowered himself over the edge.

It was painstaking work. The rocks were slick and covered in slimy young moss from the timefall. Every time Higgs thought he had a solid grip or toehold, it began to give. The anchors he was placing wouldn’t stay either. He had always been sure-footed (as a porter he had to be), but this was a test of his skills.

Two-thirds of the way down, his fingertips ached.

When he reached a particularly onerous crag, he had to pause and search for his next move. There was only one option: put his foot with the injured ankle in a tiny crevice. Not ideal. This whole trip was shaping up to be more limiting than he preferred. He liked having alternatives. There were none to be found here.

With the utmost caution, he settled his foot into the hole and placed his weight over it.

It slipped.

The harness knocked the wind out of him as it yanked him to an abrupt stop, the cable pulling taut. He swung over the canyon like a ragdoll. It hurt, but he hadn’t fallen. The apparatus had done its job. He was thankful for that bolt they had lodged. Daring a glance down, he tried to steady his swaying and twisting.

“Higgs!” Fragile’s scream echoed.

“’m fine!” He yelled back before muttering to himself, “Just like tryin’ to climb down soapy glass is all.”

He was just on the verge of righting himself when—

—the worn-out carabiner snapped.

The rope whipped out of his harness.

Higgs flailed, desperately reaching for anything and everything as he plummeted. He kept grazing the cliff face but couldn’t get a good enough grasp to slow his plunge. The wind rushed past, and none of it seemed real.

He was in a free fall.

Just then, his ribs hit hard against an outskirt. Oh god, he’d landed half on that ledge! He scrambled, furiously seeking purchase, but despite his wild kicking and clawing, his stomach kept scraping further and further off the edge.

Ra, king of the sun; father of Ma’at, she who drives away the darkness; from you we seek our survival-

There was a bright flare, and the smell of chiralium and sea salt flooded his nostrils. Hands took ahold of his tackle and hoisted. With the added help, Higgs was able to clamber up. He and his rescuer stumbled back and collapsed safely out of harm’s way.

They landed in a tangled heap, panting. Despite being curled into one another, Higgs’ feet still dangled off the side because there wasn’t quite enough room on the shelf for the two of them. Their faces were too close, sharing the same air, but he couldn’t care less. Fragile had jumped and snagged him in the nick of time. In relief, he let his forehead rest against hers.

“That is such a neat trick,” he said, breathless and thankful.

Hands still twisted in his harness as she gave him a firm shake. “Wouldn’t have needed it if you hadn’t been so stupid.” Her tone was stern and reprimanding, but when she closed her eyes and pressed her brow back against his, he realized she was concerned. 

It was a strange thing, to have someone worry about him.

He dismissed the thought.

“Let’s get the fuck off this thing.”

Chapter Text

Sam turned the parcel over in his hands before scanning it into the terminal of Mama’s lab. It wasn’t often he transported such small cargo. Finding a place for it among the hulking cases had been a bitch, and at one point during the trip, it had slipped out of his pack and went tumbling over a bluff. Fortunately, he had also been carrying container repair spray.

Mama had no delivery dumbwaiter, and so came wandering out through the electric forcefield to retrieve the shipment herself. “On time, as always,” she greeted. “Got those circuit boards I asked for?”

“Yeah,” he said, passing her the small box. “And this.”

“What is it?” Mama furrowed her brows and began picking the ‘careful: contents fragile’ tape over the metal latch.

“Heartman ordered it,” he explained, though Sam still shifted uncomfortably in his boots at the thought of Mama receiving an unexpected package. Those were only bad news these days. “Had it sent here, though. Marked as urgent.”

With a metallic pop, the canister opened. Inside laid a neatly tied natural fiber bag with a note attached by a ribbon. A small smile broke against Mama’s mouth as she read the letter. She seemed to curl inward at the words. Sam was about to step back and give her some privacy—the gift and note obviously moving to her—when she looked up and offered, “You want some tea?”

The last time he had seen Mama, she had recounted her story through a trembling voice and hands; explained how loss and emptiness were moored to her body; told of how she chose to be haunted and purposed to live in a tomb. Yet despite of all that, she teased him. Fashioned him tools. Extended invitations for tea.

He should have said no.

There were other deliveries to be made.

But instead, he began to unlatch his pack with a grunted, “Sure.”

Mama’s smile turned into something thankful, and she waved him in, cufflink clattering around her wrist.

Sam followed. After giving Lou’s tank an assuring pat, he unhooked her connection to the odradek before it could whirl to life and clap at the Beached Thing that hovered above their heads. The cooing of Mama’s daughter echoed through the warehouse, and Sam felt his stomach drop-out as his chiral allergy flared. It wasn’t called DOOMS for nothing: the sudden shift of hormones emphasized the dreaded space between things, highlighting the distance. It made one aware of the void.

Mama began to fill the space with technobabble about upgrades for Bridges’ truck fleet, hence the prototype circuit boards she asked for. It was a welcomed distraction from the ominous pit in his gut.

With her addled gate, she led him to the kitchenette in the corner of the workshop. Her prosthetic was hardly noticeable. He often forgot she had it, though she made no attempt to hide it. Her jumpsuit pantleg was even cuffed to show off the hardware’s seamless design.

“That bother you much?” he asked as he took a seat on a stool and jerked his head toward her foot. “Your leg.”

“Not anymore,” Mama shrugged, pulling out a French press from beneath the under-island storage and placing it on the counter. “Bridges initially outfitted me with a pre-fab model, but I wanted to dabble in bioengineering, so I made my own. It got better after that; felt more like a part of me.”

“Makes sense.”

They sat in amiable silence as she flicked on the kettle and withdrew two steel mugs from the cabinet as well as artificial honey. Measuring out the leaves, she heaped three spoonfuls into the plunger and then poured hot water over the top. The warm aroma of mint and thistle curled into the air as the dried plants blossomed and unfurled. Genuine tea was a delicacy in the post-Stranding world since it had to be grown in expensive underground greenhouses. Coffee, tea, spices—most of it was synthetic these days.

As they waited for the beverage to steep, Mama leaned her hip against the counter. “You don’t strike me as much of a tea guy.”

“I’m not.”

“What’s your poison?”

“Monster Energy.”

“Yeah, definitely not a tea guy.” She grinned, revealing the gap between her teeth. “I guess I should thank you for indulging me on my birthday then.”

Sam leaned over his elbows on the counter to survey the spread. “That’s why Heartman sent you this?”

“Yeah.” Her frail smile returned. “He knows I’m not…” She paused, trying to find the words: “Used to spending it alone.”

The timer chimed.

Spilling the tea out of the press and into the mugs, Mama prepped their servings. She passed Sam his cup with a murmured warning, “Careful—hot.” 

Taking it, he gave the contents a swirl. Then he lifted it into the air. “Happy birthday, Mama.”

“Cheers, Sam,” she said quietly as she softly knocked her drink against his.

And for just a moment, there was a little less distance.

A little less void.

Chapter Text

“Rarely, if ever, are any of us healed in isolation. Healing is an act of communion.”

— Bell Hooks, All About Love: New Visions

“What’cha got?”

Mama had stopped answering with the typical ‘hello.’

They rang each other multiple times a week with new research or ideas on how to help Sam, so it seemed silly to chirp a formal greeting at every call.

Heartman found their growing familiarity refreshing. Though he had worked with Mama and Lockne during the initial expedition out West, they were never close. The twins may have been an integral part of the Chiral Network, but they had also been young, and there were many more experienced engineers with whom Heartman had consulted instead. But Bridges, having lost a majority of their workforce to BTs and voidouts, now relied heavily on Mama and her expertise, which meant Heartman did, too.

Not that he minded in the least. Her measured confidence was a counterbalance to his frantic theorizing; steady when he raced and focused when he diverted course. Whenever he needed to chatter out his constellational thoughts, she was there to map them. To understand. He could blather to Sam all day (and, sometimes, accidentally did just that), but he realized that the porter’s intelligence lay in the kinesthetic, not in the scientific. Mama, on the other hand, could track with his jargon. Speak his language.

The moiré chiral projection showed her lying beneath a suspended trike, wrench in hand and grease spotting her forearms. Multitasker that she was, she had set up her chiral camera to record in her workshop so she could tinker as they spoke. She said keeping her hands busy kept her brain turning enough to keep up with his.

“Sam’s bodily fluid analyses are back from Deadman and they are fascinating,” Heartman said as he paced back and forth across his lab, articulating with his hands. “They contain chiral matter, as we knew they would, but it seems as though these excretions negate the chiral matter within BTs. As you know, when living matter meets dead, they mirror each other, resulting in annihilation. But Sam’s bodily fluids don’t mirror. They match. This causes the BT to, well, dissolve. Or, maybe ‘resolve’ would be a better word if we're being philosophical about it. Who knows? Either way, this is a magnificent discovery.”

“So, I’m guessing the question is now: how are we going to utilize it?”

“Precisely, how are we going to utilize it.” He opened his palms. “My initial thought is in some sort of anti-BT weaponry.”

“I mean, it’s definitely possible.” Mama shuffled up onto her elbows, tapping her spanner against the floor in thought. “Sam’s blood—or whatever—just needs a vehicle to travel its target, right? So, we could encapsulate it in a projectile—a bullet or grenade or something. The ink in marking rounds and paint grenades could even be swapped out. Easy.”

“Indeed,” he thrummed his fingers against the AED as his mind revolved. “Quite a simple solution, though I’d want to further refine the technology. Give it some elegance.”

“Heartman, considering what these things are?” She smirked. “I’m not sure you could ever call them elegant.”

“I will admit that when you look at it in a certain light, it is unfortunately vulgar.”

“Don’t worry, it’s still a good idea.” She raised an indifferent shoulder. “Telling Sam will be interesting, though.”

A sharp squeal pierced from the other side of the line. Mama jerked up and peered out into the distance, checking on something in her lab. After a moment, she settled back down with a dismissive wave. “Sorry ’bout that. Her new favorite thing is randomly squawking. She’s fine.”

Heartman’s smile grew tight. He didn’t know much about Mama’s situation, just that she had been pregnant with Lockne’s child, and after the attack on her hospital, had cut off all contact with her sister. But the whole thing radiated with suspicion. Like how Mama had turned the ruined hospital into her lab. Or how she had adopted a moniker. Or how she had given birth over fourteen months ago but her daughter’s vocalizations still sounded like those of a newborn.

“Are you ever going to talk to Lockne?” The question was asked in concern, but as soon as it came out, he wanted to stuff it back in. Who was he to confront her on such a thing? People in glass houses ought not throw stones.

Mama went silent. And then a fizzled clatter rang through the chiralgram as she tossed her wrench into the nearby toolbox. “Sure,” she said, lying flat against the ground. Her hands sat limply on her ribcage as she rolled her head against the concrete to sigh up at the ceiling. “Someday.”

“That was inappropriate of me, Målingen. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No, don’t apologize,” Mama mumbled as she rubbed her forehead, her dirty hands leaving behind a dark oil smear. “Some days are just harder than others.”

“They are,” he echoed back, thoughtful.

Uncertainty undertowed between them. Heartman longed to say more—he did, truly, but it seemed as though he had already mucked things up enough. He wished she could visit; wished she would open up, wished he would open up. But all the wishing in the world didn’t help.

Thirty-seconds until cardiac arrest. Please hold on to something secure. Activating lab security measures.

“I’ll let you get to dying,” Mama said as she sat up and dusted off her hands. “In the meantime, I’ll draw up some plans for prototypes. Should have them to you in a few days.”

“Målingen-”

“Take care of yourself, alright?”

Heartman plopped down on his chase lounge, feeling defeated. His mouth opened and closed, searching for words to comfort her, to let her know she didn’t have to pretend to be fine, to let her know he, too, knew what it was to be trapped and alone and scared.

But all he could get out in time was, “I’ll do my best.”

Five, four, three-

His heart stopped as her image flickered out.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

"while birds exploded into heavenly

— Mary Oliver, At Loxachatchie

Chapter Text

Samantha America Strand. Such a prestigious name for a specter. For that is what she is. No body, no Ha; no soul, no Ka. Not anymore. That is gone, eaten by cancerous cells in a terrifying act of self-annihilation. It was only appropriate. Bringer of ends that she is, why should she be spared from her own nature?

Her red dress? Not real. Her hair, her hands, her feet? Also not real. Not in any material sense. Forced to tread existence as the lonely other, the not-quite, the there-but-not-there. A foot in the living and a foot in the grave, part instinct, part vision, human but Gaia, mother but barren.

Fragile lays stripped on the sand. They often arrive as naked as the day they were born, but they bear no shame. Make no attempt to cover themselves. It makes Amelie wonder if there is something of Eden in this place. Is a beach a garden?

Waking, Fragile blinks in confusion at her surroundings. Pushing herself up by the elbows and then by the heels of her palms, her eyes dart about, trying to place herself. She spots Amelie and says nothing, but her mouth skews. Tucking her feet beneath her, she rises, steady and stable, and comes to stand beside her, taking in the ocean as it churns and swirls with sea foam and crab carcasses.

Amelie must give her credit. She is unfazed. But of course, the DOOMS is thick within her veins. It radiates from her like the pull of a retrograde void, like a black hole. One so acquainted with the extinction factor would not be perplexed by darkened shorelines. She has undoubtedly walked far more frightening coasts than this in her nightmares.

Amelie welcomes her with a delicate wave before clasping her hands in front of her, demure and genteel, “You’re Sam’s friend.”

“Yes,” Fragile confirms, side-eyeing her with skepticism. She is right to be cautious. Their last meeting had not gone well. She had shooed the porter off like an unwanted stray, and the rejection lingers.

“Then I should apologize.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I never wanted to be cruel,” Amelie says, her voice pitching to defense, “And I’m trying to make right the things I can.”

“You’re protective of him.”

It’s an assessment, not absolution.

“Yes,” Amelie sighs, “I raised him. Gave him everything I could. And I want to keep him close. Sometimes that comes out wrong.”

“I’m sorry you’re afraid of being alone.” Fragile’s words are taut like she is reluctant to offer the comfort but means it. And, ah, she is astute. Seeing more than what is being said. This is not the conversation Amelie intended to have.

She gives the other woman a nod, “Aren’t we all?”

Herself included. Is it any wonder that she, The Extinction Entity, aches for connection? Something to hold her together. Something to hold her down. Something to bind her up. Without it, she would float to the unknown, disintegrate into spume and whitecaps. Would she be human then?

Is she human now?

“People fear all sorts of things,” Fragile counters, “Imprisonment, torture, death.”

“Those are just names for being left to suffer without comfort. And to be witnessed and to witness another is the greatest comfort.”

“If you put it that way,” Fragile’s brow tucks inward, searching for deeper meaning in the words, scraping for their underlying implications, “I suppose so.”

Amelie reaches out and takes her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. She can feel the resistance in its tendons, the muscles of fight contracting. Leaning in, her plea is hardly more than a whisper, “Stop looking. It is time for the cycle to end. All I ask is that you forgive me for what I do.”

Amelie lets her hand slide away.

Laughs airily.

And begins her procession.

She hears Fragile query behind her, “What are you going to do?”

The tip her almond-toed shoe dips into the ocean. The tide laps up against her ankles. She continues forward, arms spread to embrace the inevitable. She fought. Oh, how she fought. But she is done. What a freedom to surrender, to live out the destiny ordained for her. What a relief, what a peace to align herself with her purpose. Her fingertips skim the surface of the water as she continues to descend.

It bursts from grey to scarlet like a beached whale splitting from its rot in the high noon sun.

Breaking into a hummed London Bridge, she lets the tune and saltwater swell against her breast.

Just before she submerges her head, accepts her untethering, she hears Fragile scream from the shore,

“What are you going to do?!”

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